doubled zeal. She placed kegs of hot water about him, forced brandy between his teeth, breathed into his nostril, and held hartshorn to his nose; but still the body lay motionless and cold. She looked anxiously at the watch; in five minutes the promised half-hour would expire, and those dreadful voices would be heard, passing through the street. Hopelessness came over her; she dropped the head she had been sustaining; her hand trembled violently; and the hartshorn she had been holding was spilled upon the pallid face. Accidentally, the position of the head had been slightly tipped backward, and the powerful liquid flowed into his nostrils. Instantly there was a short quick gasp -a struggle-his eyes opened; and when the death men came again they found him sitting up in the bed. He is still alive, and has enjoyed unusually good health.

THE LITTLE SHROUD.

[We have an impression that the following exquisite touch of pathos and sentiment is by Miss Gould, but are not certain. Be it whose it may, it is beautiful.]

She put him on a snow-white shroud,
A chaplet on his head;
And gathered early primroses

To scatter oe'r the dead.

She laid him in his little grave—
'T was hard to lay him there,
When spring was putting forth its flowers,
And everything was fair.

She had lost many children-now
The last of them was gone;
And day and night she sat and wept
Beside the funeral stone.

One midnight, while her constant tears
Were falling with the dew,

She heard a voice and lo! her child
Stood by her weeping too!

His shroud was damp, his face was white,
He said "I cannot sleep,

Your tears have made my shroud so wet:
Oh, mother, do not weep!"

Oh, love is strong!—the mother's heart
Was filled with tender fears;
Oh, love is strong!—and for her child
Her grief restrained its tears.

One eve a light shone round her bed,
And there she saw him stand-
Her infant in his little shroud,
A taper in his hand.

"Lo! mother, see my shroud is dry,
And I can sleep once more !"
And beautiful the parting smile
The little infant wore.

And down within the silent grave

He laid his weary head;

And soon the early violets

Grew o'er his grassy bed.

The mother went her household ways—

Again she knelt in prayer,

And only asked of Heaven its aid

Her heavy lot to bear.

ASTONISHING ACCURACY OF THE BIBLE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF GAUSSEN

An astonishing feature of the Word of God is, notwithstanding the time to which it alludes, there is not one physical error-not one assertion or allusion disproved by the progress of modern science. None of those mistakes which the science of each succeeding age discovered, in the books of the preceding; above all, none of those absurdities which modern astronomy indicates in such great numbers in the writings of the ancients-in their sacred codes --in their philosophy, and even in the finest pages of the fathers of the church-not one of these errors is to be found in any of our sacred books. Nothing there will ever contradict that which, after so many ages, the investigation of the learned world have been able to reveal to us on the state of our globe, or on the state of the heavens. Peruse with care our Scriptures from one end to the other, to find there such spots, and, while you apply yourself to this examination, remember that it is a book which speaks of everything, which describes nature, which recites its creation, which tells us of the water, of the atmosphere, of the mountains, of the animals, and of the plants. It is a book which teaches us the first revolutions of the world, and which also foretells its last. It recounts them in the circumstantial language of history, it extols them in the

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ASTONISHING ACCURACY OF THE BIBLE.

sublimests strains of poetry, and it chants them in the charms of glowing song. It is a book which is full of oriental rapture, elevation, variety, and boldness. Its is a book which speaks of the Heavenly and invisible world, while it also speaks of the earth and things visible. It is a book which nearly fifty writers of every degree of cultivation, of every state, of every condition and living through the course of fifteen hundred years, have concurred to make. It is a book which was written in the centre of Asia, in the sands of Arabia, and in the deserts of Judea; in the court of the temple of the Jews, in the music schools of the prophets of Bethel and Jericho, in the sumptuous palaces of Babylon, and on the idolatrous bank of Chebar; and, finally, in the centre of the Western civilisation, in the midst of the Jews and of their ignorance, in the midst of polytheism and its idols, as also in the bosom of pantheism and its sad philosophy. It is a book whose first writer had been forty years a pupil of the magicians of Egypt, in whose opinion the sun, the stars, and the elements were endowded with intelligence, reacted on the elements, and governed the world by a perpetual alluvium. It is a book which carries its narrations even to the hierarchies of angels-even to the most distant epochs of the future, and the glorious scenes of the last day. Well: search among its 50 authors, search among its 66 books, its 1,189 chapters, and its 31,713 verses, search for only one of those thousand errors which the ancient and moderns committed when they spoke of the heavens or of the earth-of their revolutions, of their elements search-but you will find none.